In fact, it was high time someone put the Bugsy wanna-be in his place. A smile tugged at Chance's mouth. Why not? he thought. It wasn't what his sire Bones told him to do, which was to simply alter Robert's mind until he no longer believed that he wanted to marry Isabella, but Chance would make sure it still all turned out the same. Well, with just a little well-deserved comeuppance added to it.
And that would mean more time in the lovely Isabella's company. Maybe enough to find out what else would make her blush. Chance already had a few ideas.
"Hey, buddy," the one named Paul growled behind him. "We wanna talk to you."
Chance turned, noting with amusement that they'd picked the darkest end of the parking lot for their confrontation. How unoriginal.
"If you're going to warn me to stay away from Spagarelli's beautiful proprietor or you'll hurt me in various exaggerated ways, save your breath," Chance replied calmly. "I'll be seeing her-and you idiots too, I suppose-there tomorrow night at nine sharp."
Paul's mouth dropped, making him look like a freshly caught blowfish.
"You know who you're talkin' to?" he finally demanded.
"Of course. Spaghetti alla nona, side of extra meatballs."
Ritchie cracked his knuckles as he stepped nearer. "You're in for a beating, dickhead."
"Really? Fuggetaboutit," Chance mocked with a heavy Italian accent.
Ritchie swung. Since he was human, to Chance it looked like he was moving in slow motion. He ducked neatly and at the same time, pivoted Ritchie a little to the right.
That roundhouse punch landed in Paul's face instead.
Paul rocked back even as Ritchie gasped. Chance didn't bother to suppress his laughter.
"Ouch. You owe your friend an apology," he chuckled.
Ritchie whirled around even as Paul began cursing about his nose being broken. From the sudden sweet smell in the air, Chance didn't have to glance his way to know he was correct.
With a snarl, Ritchie came at him again. This time, Chance didn't duck out of the way. He simply moved to the side and stuck out his foot.
Ritchie tripped and went flying, the momentum from his charge making him land with a heavy thud several feet away. More rich, mouth-watering scent filled the air. Ritchie had skinned his knee and his elbow on the asphalt badly enough that both were bleeding.
"Will we be dancing like this for long?" Chance asked.
Ritchie got to his feet slowly, giving Chance a furious look. Paul was still focused on his nose, more red staining the front of his shirt.
"You got fancy moves, pal?" Ritchie asked, drawing a gun from his inner jacket. "Try dodging this!"
He fired twice in quick succession, hitting Chance in the chest. The bullets weren't silver, though, so their pain only lasted a few moments. Long enough for him to drop to the ground like a regular person would, clutch his chest (to hide the rapidly healing wounds), gasp out a few breaths... and then let his breath rattle out in one last, dramatic exhalation.
Oscar-worthy, if he did say so himself.
"Jesus!" he heard Paul hiss above him. "Ritchie, what the f**k? There's people around here!"
Ritchie's heartbeat was galloping, from the thrill of his presumed kill, or the fear of getting caught. Either way, its sound made Chance's fangs ache with longing.
"Get his keys," Ritchie said roughly. "We'll put him in his trunk, you follow in your car behind me, and we'll bury this f**k before Letterman comes on. Hurry."
Chance felt them tug his car keys from his hand, lift him up with much muttered cursing about being quick to avoid potential bystanders, and then the thump of landing in his own trunk. Mentally he counted off the time. Less than two minutes from shots fired to body hidden, not bad. Clearly this wasn't their first time.
He was jostled more as Paul swung the vehicle out of the parking lot. Careful, Chance thought over the squeal of tires. You dent my new Camaro and I'll shove the steering wheel right up your ass.
Thoughts of Isabella brightened his mood. She had a beautiful face, a curvy body that bucked today's frightful stick-figure trends, and an ironclad streak of loyalty mixed with bravery. It wasn't every person who would sacrifice themselves to save their undeserving brother, after all. Frazier Spaga had gotten involved with Robert Bertini because of the lure of easy money. Now he was being used as collateral over his sister, and Isabella thought she had nothing but herself to ransom him back.
But you're wrong, Chance mused with a smile. You just don't know it yet.
Chapter 2
Isa walked into Blue Ridge Vineyards fifteen minutes early. She didn't want to run the risk of missing Chance if he showed up. What a strange name, she mused. Maybe it was an alias.
Again, she wondered what her grandmother was up to. Isa hadn't bothered to call her and ask, of course. No need to upset her by telling her she was pulling the plug on whatever it was the sweet old lady had put into motion. Chance had said his "sire," which Isa surmised was just a formal word for father, had been a friend of her grandmother's. Despite Isa's inventive lies, her grandmother must have figured out that Frazier was in trouble, which wasn't uncommon. He'd been very rebellious as a teenager and though he'd calmed down in his twenties, he was hardly a stellar citizen. Isa didn't know how Frazier managed to pay his rent every month, since he hadn't held a regular job in years.
Still, when you added her brother's abrupt disappearance with Isa's surprise engagement to a man like Robert, no wonder her grandmother was spooked.
"Hi, Isa," the store clerk greeted her. Since she bought a lot of her wine from this place, she'd been on a first-name basis with most of the employees for a while.
"How's it going, Jim?" she asked.
"Can't complain, who'd listen?" he replied with a friendly smile.
Who indeed? Isa mentally agreed. Certainly not the police. She'd gone to them right after Robert proposed, if that's what you could call him saying, "Good news, Isa. I've decided we're getting married," and cutting off her immediate, sputtering objections with, "Seen your brother Frazier around lately?" with a knowing gleam in his dark eyes. Robert had followed up with, "Yep, I know for a fact you'll see him after our wedding, but if we don't have one... well. That brother of yours. He's accident prone, isn't he?"
She'd relayed that to the first police officer she saw at the station the very next day, and Isa would never forget what he did. He looked around, shut his office door, and slid her complaint form back across the desk at her.
"You seem like a nice lady," he'd said without looking at her. "So I'm going to say congratulations on your engagement... and don't ever file this form to me or anyone else if you care about your brother. Or yourself."